


Monument to Despair

by Regressive_RS



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Cyrisus - Freeform, F/M, Grief/Mourning, OC/Canon Relationship, Sad, Temple Knights, This poor character when will I give her a break, Winter der Messer, probably never
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25294654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regressive_RS/pseuds/Regressive_RS
Summary: After the events of While Guthix Sleeps, Winter battles her grief and finally mourns the man she loved.
Relationships: Cyrisus (Runescape)/OC
Kudos: 8





	Monument to Despair

The sun had beaten down incessantly in Falador, the normally mild weather having yielded to extreme heat over the past week. Even the normally mild breeze that trailed down from the mountains seemed to be absent, leaving the area absolutely scorched.

The grass wilted, and even the flowers seemed on the verge of death. The gardeners in the park rushing around rapidly to try and keep them alive – a fool’s errand, in this heat. Still, watching the mad dash between the water pumps and the flowerbeds to fill their pails was a brief respite from the writing that had been going on.

Perched on the only bench still receiving shade thanks to its fortuitous position between two trees, Winter sat and fanned herself with the brim of her cavalier – long since soaked in sweat from the day. Beads of sweat trailed down the back of her neck, plastering her hair to the skin exposed between her back and white dress.

How she detested the dress – the frills and materials being the only thing available for purchase on her way up to the city, and how much she wanted to stab the merchant who sold it to her.

“A beautiful material for a mother-to-be, no?” he had said, despite the displeasure becoming rapidly apparent on her face. An ever-present reminder of her current… condition, which she tried not to think too much about in public.

Regardless, she hadn’t wanted to die of heatstroke, and she purchased it anyway. Not before running through very many ways to creatively murder him in her mind, however.

The difference in color between her hat and dress was striking, to say the least. Attention-grabbing, others would have called it. Grabbing attention from anyone was the last thing she had wanted for this trip.

Beside her sat two stacks of parchment. One stack contained her calligraphic handwriting, flowing over pages and pages, each letter and sentence meticulously crafted before being inscribed. At least she could still put the handwriting lessons she’d picked up from the Death Lotus to use – she’d never have been a scribe before that.

The other stack, so far, remained blank. She had set out to the park with the intention of writing more today, but the oppressive heat proved to be making that more than a bit difficult. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she gazed across the dying park, shaking her head.

Looking straight across the park over the wilted marigolds, Winter could just make out a familiar, if unwelcome, face. She didn’t know why she expected him not to be there, even in this heat. He’d been sat there so long, it was surprising that he hadn’t grown roots into the ground, straight through the bench.

No doubt that was the face of Sir Tiffy Cashien, still dressed in his full armor. How he wasn’t being broiled alive in his tin can, Winter would never know. Probably some Temple Knight magic. She tried pointedly not to look at him, as he sat there and sipped his tea, seemingly without a care in the world. As if seven months previous, a whole cavalcade of brave adventurers and heroes hadn’t been wiped away by that vile –

Winter gulped, and looked down. There was no point in getting herself worked up. It couldn’t be changed. She hadn’t realized she’d been clenching her fist, and slowly released her grip. The parchment in her hand had been ruined, but it was blessedly blank. Serving more use now as a way to mop up the downpour of sweat, she grimaced to herself. She was sure Tiffy had seen her; he’d probably known she was in the city before she ever stepped foot in the park.

It didn’t matter. She was here for one reason – the statue dedication. As soon as it was over, she could leave, head back to Lumbridge, and wait out the rest of this pregnancy. After that, who knew. Maybe charter a boat to the Elven Lands. It wouldn’t be the first time she was there, she recalled, looking at the scarring on her arm from previous escapades there. It would put even more distance between her and the Death Lotus, to boot.

Leaning back against the worn wood of the bench, she finally allowed her hand to rest on her swollen middle, feeling soft and subtle movements within. How she wished _he_ could be here, in this moment. The immortalization in statues would never be enough. 

Winter cast her gaze past the statue of ‘Saradomin’, – _how would anybody have known what he would’ve looked like if he existed, anyway?_ – towards the small pond at the back of the lake. She’d seen the sculptors and builders were almost finished. Even from the distance she was at, she could see they’d honored her request to have his face showing, unlike the ones leading up to the castle. They’d sculpted a helmet onto his head there — how would anybody know who he was? What he’d sacrificed, for the good of all? She was sure the gold she’d handed off to the sculptors had helped.

Looking back at her stack of completed parchment, she picked one up Her eyes glazing over as she [read](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25294738). She heard, in the distance, the sounds of sculptors beginning to pack up tools and break down scaffolding. Knowing they’d be done with the last one, _his_ statue, by the time she looked over all of them, she gathered up her things, and slowly got onto her feet.

Wincing slightly, she sighed, holding the parchment to her chest, cavalier once again on her head. Her feet had been so swollen the entire week, and the heat hadn’t helped. Shuffling, — well, waddling – towards the first of the statues, Winter steeled her nerves for the walk around.

She stopped first at Turael, the slayer master with his halberd. She hadn’t known him particularly well, but he seemed nice enough. She had sent flowers to Spria, his daughter, after they got back. Winter had personally asked the druids to look after her, not that she’d been in any position to ask that of them.

Sloane had been next, as a cool breeze finally seemed to pick up as she walked. The lily pads rippled in the pond as she looked up at him, just as large in sculpture as he had been in life. He had to be massive, just from looking at the size of the axe he carried.

Then, there was Hazelmere. His death stung the second most, after _his._ She’d always liked the little gnome, she found his demeanor similar to hers — even if she hated how he’d invade her mind at a moment’s notice to tell her something, or read her own thoughts. She rested her hand on the plinth where his statue was placed, before moving onward.

Her breathing was getting faster then, and her heart had started hammering in her chest as she was approaching the end of the circle.

She had nearly skipped Ghommal, an absolute mountain of a man. He reminded her somewhat of Sigkal, a Fremennik of some repute in the north. The size of a bear, and with a heart seemingly just as large. She hadn’t known him much at all, but in all his years guarding the Warrior’s Guild, never once had someone gotten in who shouldn’t have been there.

Then, there was Duradel. Supposedly the only man Vannaka feared. A master slayer, and someone she had hoped to study from at some point. That ship had long sailed, now. Winter had heard that he had a daughter as well; some even said her mastery of slaying had exceeded his. Maybe she’d visit her at some point.

Then, the moment Winter had been dreading approached. Her heart felt as if it were about to explode out of her chest, and even despite the heat, she had the chills. Feeling more than a little ill, she finally reached _his_ statue as the sculptors broke down the last of the scaffolding, and cleared the way.

For Winter, time seemed to stand still at that moment. The sculpture was immaculate, simply perfect in capturing him. His hair had been perfectly swept, just the way he liked it, and his pose was fierce. His eyes were stoic and steeled, even as he wore a brave expression.

“Cyrisus…” Winter croaked, one hand reached out shakily. She slid her fingers between the statues’ marble ones, and it only heightened her disappointment. Even though she knew it wasn’t, she was hoping for the warmth of his skin, the pliability of his hands as she clasped her hand around it.

She could almost hear the last words he had spoken to her, ringing in her ears and mind. 

“Do good. I love you.”

Tears slid down her cheeks in droves, as she fought to keep her voice and emotions under control. The child inside her kicked hard, obviously perturbed by the emotional distress that she was going through.

“I’m so sorry...” Winter gulped out, hoping that anyone near enough to see her would confuse her tears with beads of sweat. There had been no chance for that to happen, but nobody had been around, anyway. They were just as salty, running down her cheeks and across her lips, but the sad taste of bitterness was included as well. 

Knees wobbly, Winter had been on the verge of breaking down completely when she felt an armored gauntlet rest upon her shoulder, unable to hear the owner’s approach over the sounds of her grief.

“Come now, old gal. This is no place for you to exhaust yourself. Let’s pop down to the pub and get you some water, old bean?” said Sir Tiffy, in a much kindlier tone than she had anticipated.

Vision blurred from the tears, Winter’s fingers slowly slipped from the statue, and she turned towards him silently. Taking a proffered handkerchief, she wiped her tears away, clutching the fabric in her hands afterwards as they slowly made their way towards the exit of the park, at her pace.

Perhaps the Temple Knights weren’t so bad, after all.

Winter couldn’t help but to look back over her shoulder as they walked, still wistful and worn out. The sculptures collectively were called 'Monument to the Fallen', but all Winter can think of as she looked upon the best hopes Gielinor had, extinguished in an instant, was that it was a 'Monument to Despair'.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you to Chaos_Elemental, this time for both editing, and lighting the fire under my ass to finally get that done.


End file.
